Star Wars Ficlet Collection
by Amilyn
Summary: Includes: PT, Clone Wars, Rebels, OT. 1. Baby Ahsoka, 2. CW Trio, 3. Bail and Padme, 4. Obi-Wan in exile, 5. Kanan & Hera TotA, 6. Leia post-ANH, 7. Leia and rage, 8. Anakin post-Vader in RotJ. Warnings: grief, loss, injury.
1. Joy in the Chase (baby Ahsoka Tano, CW)

**Joy in the Chase**

by Amy L Hull

Written as a treat for JediFest December Drabbles 2017. Prompt: Ahsoka Tano, laughter. 250 words.

Plo Koon had, like all Jedi Masters, served every function in the Temple.

He'd taught methods of meditation, trained younglings, drilled lightsaber forms, prepared trainees for Initiate Trials, and taken on Padawans.

His true expertise, however, was reconnaissance and tactical planning.

No mission had tested his creativity as fully as this trip back from Shili, entertaining one so active.

With the motion of a finger, he bounced the colorful stone across the cargo bay. Again.

The tiny girl chased after it, peals of laughter ringing off the deck plates.

She grabbed at the stone. He scooted it away, and she giggled again, then pounced on it, rather like a tooka. Still laughing, she ran to him, clambered into his lap, and held up the stone.

"Mast-Plo! Again!" She threw the stone into the air.

He sent the stone loop-de-loop through the air. The bottom of its arc passed just above little Ahsoka's head and she toddled and ran and jumped like any child chasing a butterfly.

She jumped-higher than she had shown yet she could-and he felt ripples in the Force.

Yes, this child would be a formidable Jedi.

Her giggles were pure glee, exaggerated with each bounce's exhale as she skipped across the hold. "Mast-Plo, _again!_ "

The Temple could use this kind of unfettered joy, too, he thought.

He twirled the stone up in a spiral and let it roll as if down a gravity well.

Ahsoka ran in circles and her shrieks of laughter echoed through the Force.


	2. Like Master, Like Padawan (Soka,Obi,Ani)

**Like Master, Like Padawan**

by Amy L Hull

Written for JediFest December Drabbles 2017. Prompt: Ahsoka/Anakin, reckless. 200 words.

"Reckless?" Ahsoka gaped. "You think I was being _reckless?_ "

Obi-Wan reached out. "Only in that-"

Ahsoka narrowed her eyes. "Oh, don't do that 'Calm down, my young Padawan' thing."

"First of all, you're not my Padawan, you're Master Skywalker's-"

"What about me?" Anakin looked from Ahsoka's folded arms to Obi-Wan's outstretched hand. "Is he being Condescending Master Kenobi again, Snips?"

She smirked. "How'd you know?"

Anakin shrugged then pointed. "It's that palm-down gesture, like he can use a Jedi mind trick to calm either of us."

Obi-Wan looked at his hands, then moved them to his hips. "Maybe that is because both of you need continual reminders to calm down."

Ahsoka turned to Anakin and laughed. "Hmm, it's like you've met him."

"What was he doing, Snips? Complaining about you being reckless?"

"Now wait a minute, you two-"

Ahsoka's smile widened crookedly. "Got it in one."

Obi-Wan scoffed.

"Come on, Obi-Wan, Snips wouldn't be reckless." Anakin slung a casual arm around her. "After all, she's _my_ Padawan." He leaned toward her. "Next thing you know, he'll be warning us to be more discreet."

Obi-Wan shook his head and muttered, "Only if you can teach that discretion to Senator Amidala too."


	3. Lucky Child, With Parents Such As These

**A Lucky Child, With Parents Such As These**

by Amy L Hull

Written as a treat for JediFest December Drabbles 2017. Prompt: Bail & Padmé, friends. 300 words.

"Senator Organa, do you intend to stare at me or draft this anti-slavery proposal?"

Bail swallowed, shifting his gaze from Padmé's abdomen. "I was- I-" He looked up and started over. "I was unconscionably rude. Please accept my apologies."

Padmé took pity on him. "To the question no one will ask, yes, I'm expecting a child."

"May I-"

"You may not." She smiled to soften her words. "My appearance is public knowledge. My private life is...private."

Bail inclined his head after the manner of the Elder Houses. "I apologize again. I wish you health, ease, and every joy. They are richly deserved."

Padmé placed a hand gently on his. "I know the struggles you and Breha have faced. I know you dearly wish to share your lives with children-not for the throne, but for love."

Bail nodded. "Please allow Breha and me the honor to support you in any way we can. You have been a great friend to Alderaan and a boon to many difficult days in these dark times."

"Thank you. You've been a great comfort to me as well. I'm sure my child will spend many happy days when we visit the palace on Alderaan."

"You'll be very welcome. Breha will be delighted at your presence." Bail kissed her knuckles.

Padmé smiled at him, leaning forward slightly. "In times such as these, I'm sure an opportunity will arise for you and Breha to offer a child a home. That child will be very lucky, indeed, with such attentive and loving parents."

"Let's continue our work. There are still enslaved children and crime lords in the outer rim. Certainly, even with the war, we can offer some relief."

"We must." Padmé's hand ghosted over the swell of her belly. "That is no way for anyone to live."


	4. What the Desert Consumes (Obi-Wan)

**What the Desert Consumes**

by Amy L Hull

Written for JediFest December Drabbles 2017. Prompt: Obi-Wan/Qui-Gon, memory, 400 words

The desert consumed everything. Water. Comfort. Life. Hope.

Obi-Wan carved a hermit hole from a fissure in the sandstone. He could only imagine what Master Qui-Gon would have said about such use of a lightsaber. This elegant weapon-that was his _life_ -being used as a common chisel.

The desert consumed dignity as well.

On monthly trips to Mos Eisley for dried foodstuffs-better than Republic military rations-Obi-Wan kept his robe on and hood up.

He hoped the desert consumed identity.

His battered datapad failed in his fifth year in the desert.

Perhaps it was better this way. He'd long since committed the writings to memory.

Occasionally during meditation he heard a faint whisper, more like a ghost of an echo, like a memory of Master Qui-Gon's voice. He was never sure if he was tapping into Yoda's promised connection or if the isolation and the desert were consuming his mind.

His days-and some nights-were spent watching over young Skywalker, nudging opportunities and lessons his way. He meditated when Anakin and Padmé's son wasn't tumbling righteously into danger.

In the Great Drought, the ridiculous child challenged the Hutts directly. No one challenged the Hutts. Even without the boy to protect, Obi-Wan would not have done so without a squadron of clone troopers. Young Skywalker's insistence on fairness was foolhardy.

A night of rushed terror ended with the desert littered with Hutt goons and Obi-Wan breathing hard over a limp, concussed child.

He tried to focus on the outcome as he carried young Skywalker across the desert, but the close call had shaken him to his core. He had failed Anakin, and they lost the galaxy. He could not lose this, their last stand.

As he laid the child in the safety of the Lars' dwelling, he paused to look at the face, narrower than his father's, though the shock of blond hair was exactly his father's.

He passed a hand over Skywalker's forehead, nudging the concussion toward healing, nudging the boy toward healthy sleep.

He couldn't avoid touching the bright presence, as golden as Obi-Wan's memory of another young Skywalker's Force signature.

He wept as he crossed the sands to his hovel.

In meditation that night, Qui-Gon was clear, no mere memory. They felt, together, the comfort and rightness of this vibrating thread in the Force. _This_ was the boy. This Skywalker was chosen.

Perhaps the desert consumed shame...and gave second chances.


	5. Let Me Be Enough (KH, Rebels)

**Let Me Be Enough**

by Amy L Hull

Written for JediFest December Drabbles 2017. Prompt: Kanan/Hera, confide. 100 words.

Hera lay next to Kanan, listening to his ragged breathing.

Even their strongest medications and his meditation could not remove his pain.

She'd insisted on replacing the makeshift bandage from Malachor.

Kanan had grabbed her wrist then kissed her palm.

"Don't tell them." His voice had been warm against her hand, but strained.

She'd pulled his hand to her cheek. "Kanan-"

"They'll know soon enough."

She'd nodded, then finished wound care, wondering if he'd known it hopeless before her shocked reaction.

She took his hand and whispered, "I'm afraid-"

"Me too-"

Simultaneously they continued, "that I'm going to fail you."


	6. Survivor's Guilt (Leia post ANH)

**Survivor's Guilt**

by Amy L. Hull

Written for JediFest December Drabbles 2017. Prompt: Leia Organa, Confession. 200 words.

Yavin IV was awash with energy.

Victory, finally. Scarif, then the Death Star.

The air hummed with hope. And repulsor lifts and power tools. Loading, refueling, loading, repairing, loading: evacuation was constant motion.

Leia stood, visible but apart. She was not real. Not anymore. She was the Rebellion's talisman.

Her eyes burned, dry despite the forest humidity. The temple's cold stone against her back numbed still-healing burns and bruises.

It touched none of the deeper pain hitching every breath.

General Rieekan approached. "Your transport is ready, Princess."

Leia nodded, pulled stiff limbs forward, forced her neck to support her heavy, heavy head.

A hand touched her shoulder. She jumped, jerking her unfocused gaze from the activity below and up to Rieekan.

His eyes looked as empty, as hollow as she felt. Vader had scooped everything out of her, all emotion, all movement, all response.

The confession clawed free. "I watched it die." She swallowed. "Alderaan. Home. It was so beautiful, then...fragments."

Rieekan nodded.

"I haven't cried."

Rieekan's lips thinned. "It's too much. I still cannot conceive."

"I hate that I'm-"

"Glad you weren't there?"

She nodded, one slow dip and rise of her chin.

 _That it was my fault._


	7. Rage Against the Empire (Leia)

**Rage Against the Empire**

Written as a treat for jedicuties for JediFest December Drabbles 2017. Prompt: Leia, rage. 100 words.

Gentility and regalness were comfortable as a well-made cloak. Leia wore them, head high, throughout the base.

Her attentive compassion was comforting, like a favorite sweater. Wounded members of the Rebellion, refugees, all spoke of the Last Princess of Alderaan with reverence.

High Command's best hand-to-hand trainer knew that she never pulled a punch, that she fought dirty, that she gave no quarter.

Members of missions found themselves startled, awed by the tiny princess's sharp orders and sharp-shooting.

Her rage fueled battles against the Empire, ultimately spilling over onto interactions with Han Solo, who would not officially join those battles.


	8. The Rhythm of Pain (Anakin, RotJ)

**The Rhythm of Pain**

by Amy L Hull

Written as a treat for JediFest December Drabbles 2017. Prompt: Anakin, regret, 550 words.

The respirator's rhythm was the most consistent aspect of Anakin's final 23 years.

That rhythm, and pain.

He usually felt the pain in time with the respirator.

Now the respirator was failing, and the pain was limited to intermittent pressure from his chest armor as his son dragged him. The boy's uneven footfalls on the deck were synchronized with the uneven bursts from the respirator.

He was free.

Free from Palpatine. Free from the Sith. Free from the Dark Side. Free from his hatred.

Only regret remained. His fall. Obi-Wan. The blur of rage. So much death. Padmé. Lost years with his children.

Children.

He'd been distracted from the revelation by Luke's fear-so close to turning-and rage, by pain, remembered loss, weakness, Luke's screams, his son calling him "father," the heady moment where Palpatine's attention was so far from him that he could act, the consuming but familiar pain of Force lightning, the warning sirens sounding throughout this abomination of a space station.

Children.

Luke, entirely focused on getting him to the shuttle, was no longer shielding, and Anakin, lightheaded, low on oxygen, listened.

Obi-Wan had hidden Luke on Tatooine. With the name Skywalker. Brazen. It should never have worked.

So many of their plans should never have worked. Leaping with a Force push. High-speed tandem chases. Misdirects where the "child"- _oh, Ahsoka, I'm so sorry_ -was the real infiltrator. So many...

Luke-his son-hated sand as much as he had. How could anyone on Tatooine not?

His son had stolen from Jabba the Hutt. And, recently, destroyed the gangster. Anakin's heart fluttered with pride. Or his pacemaker failing. Or both.

If only Luke could have met his mother. At least he'd been with Shmi's stepson. It seemed they'd told Luke of his grandmother. She would have been so proud of this golden presence, shining in the bleak grey of Imperial corridors.

Members of the skeleton crew scurried about them, racing for available escape pods.

Anakin jerked back to consciousness.

"Your respirator's failing," Luke gasped, still tugging.

"Yes." He would die in his son's presence.

But not his daughter's. He would never meet-

 _"I'm coming, Leia. I'm coming back."_

Anakin's heart skipped again. Organa. That brat of a senator- The one so much like Padmé. How had he never seen it? Her stature. Her voice. Her determined defense of all sentients. Her stubbornness. Her defiance.

Oh, how she hated him. Her bravery as he'd-

He'd tortured her. Used criminal methods. Poisoned her with chemicals. Rifled through her mind. Held her and made her watch as they destroyed the world she...the world where someone else had raised her.

His children, the best of Padmé, the best of him, all their best parts rolled into two beings. The strength, the bravery, the determination...they were both the best of his mother, too.

He'd thrown them away when he'd thrown himself away. He could never make that right. It was better that he was dying.

The galaxy would be in their capable hands.

Luke slowed, breathing hard. Everything was dark now; the helmet and mask had failed.

Anakin had only two wishes remaining: to send a message to Leia that she was not from pure evil alone, and to see his son one more time.

"Luke, help me take this mask off."


End file.
